Birds of a Feather
by InsecureLemon
Summary: There are mages and there are Templars. And there are certain rules and boundaries that- if you're either one- you don't cross. Because in this cage you stick with your own kind. Fem!Amell x Cullen; pre/early game. COMPLETE- Sequel started!
1. Birds of Feather

_**A/N:** My first Dragon Age fic! Yay! (?) About the Human Mage (fem) Warden and Cullen. This is kinda the prologue... thing.  
I'll probably do a sequel-thing for post-game. Prolly._

___10.24.10: Undergoing some editing. Also, the sequel is started.  


* * *

_**  
Birds of a feather**

You'd think that after a while a person would get used to something—however unpleasant that something might be. But this is not true. And the mages residing in the Circle of Magi Tower know this all too well.

_.X.x.X._

Apprentice mages travel in packs. Any time the not-so-chance encounter of a Templar has even the _slightest_ possibility of showing up (and, considering where and what they are, that is a very large 'slight' possibility), the younger mages amalgamate, preferring to travel in groups of four or five.

After all, safety in numbers, right?

The apprentices walk anxiously and hurriedly as they escort one another to corresponding destinations, occasionally letting their eyes, wide in half-terror, half-awe flick nervously to the ever-present, ever-solemn sentinels of the tower.

Though, it wasn't like they had anything to truly be frightened of. Usually.

Well, except for the glaring.

And the blades.

And the fact that should these watchful 'guardians' so chose, the Templars could cancel out their magic, their defenses, their power, and, well—_them._

So, no. Nothing to be frightened of at all.

Really.

But eventually, the apprentices learn to block out that cold-as-steel feeling that the Templars give off. Or rather, they learn to numb that sense of constant and sheer terror that the templars once inspired. They turn their fright into something else: Resentment, or sometimes even hatred. But not terror. Never terror. Not anymore.

The frightened glances become squints of annoyance or suspicion. The groups of apprentices break up into individual mages, preoccupied with studies with their noses either buried in text or stuck high in the air as they march, not scurry, about the halls.

Because the Tower is _**their**__ home_. And they're determined to not show any fear to something that might as well be a piece of very ugly, very out-of-place, and very uncomfortable piece of furniture.

_.X.x.X._

The Templars in the Circle Tower are focused. They have to be. Because the Tower is a dangerous place. And could grow more so at any moment. And they know this. All too well.

Well, except the rookies; they're often excited for their first Harrowing Guard, hoping for a chance at action, instead of pretending to be a statue all day.

By the end of their third or fourth Harrowing, they usually change their minds. Because by then they've usually seen at least one apprentice fail.

And seeing an Abomination being born is _not_ a pretty sight.

Terrifying. Horrifying. Sickening. And multiplying a mage's power and danger over ten-fold.

It's the solid, undisputable proof that any Templar would _ever _need to see to permanently back his beliefs

And it had been seen quite a few times.

But eventually, the Templars adjust. They get over the nightmares. The shakes. The constant idea that, if something, _anything_, were to go wrong, they could find themselves locked away in an isolated stone tower in the middle of the lake with nothing but soul-and-flesh-eating demons for company.

Because that won't happen. Not if they do their jobs right.

Still, it's better not to trust them from the start. Because maybe, just _maybe _they'll turn out of be a Blood Mage. And then, they'll throw all your trust and friendliness back in your face. Or worse, use it to manipulate you, your friends, whatever.

Because Blood Mages are tricky like that.

So, the templars treat all mages that way; like they were blood mages. Or demons. Or something very slimy and unpleasant and quite possibly poisonous.

Because for all they know, that's _exactly_ what the mages are.


	2. Chapter 1

**Birds of a Feather**  
Chapter 1

She walked briskly, with a purpose. She walked with a certain air of pride about her, her head high and her back straight and her eyes forward.

She walked like all the mages did- at least, in the corridors. In front of the Templars.

Because in front of them, she wasn't herself; she was a steady bulwark of confidence. And magic.

Because _to_ them, she wasn't a person; she was an unsightly stain on the face of humanity. She was a danger.

She was a mage.

And, it was because of _that _defining factor that she was who she was. Both sides.

Because, you see, mages had an armor of their own. Not the shiny, hard, metal kind like the Templars. This one was more... ethereal. Like them.

And it was that armor that she, like so many of her fellow mages, she had donned right now. Just to travel four doors down the hall of the Tower, her home.

And her prison.

She understood the ideas of the Circle Tower. And appreciated it (though grudgingly). She knew people were none too kind to mages. Pernicious, even. She knew why they were feared, and why so many precautions were taken to prevent a demon's possession of a mage. And she understood the dangers of what would happen _should_ a mage become possessed. Heck, she even understood the threat of Blood Mages.

But what she didn't know _or _understand was why so many Templars were needed in so many places.

Or why they glared and set their jaws every time a mage came within ten feet of them.

No, she didn't understand that.

But, eventually, she stopped caring.

She did what every other mage did; she racked it up to their self-righteousness, arrogance, ignorance, and the fact that Templars were all-around just _not nice. _And then she set it to the back of her mind. So she could focus on more important things... Like getting to the library._  
_

This, in the entire Tower, was the one place that she felt really, truly _safe_. Even more so with its obligatory Templar guard gone.

She smirked a little bit, her eyes scanning over one of the numerous shelves, searching titles for something to pass the time until her next lesson. _'They really should get on that.'_

The Templar that had once been posted there had retired about a week ago, and the Knight-Commander Greagoir had been unable to find a replacement since.

So, with the exception of the occasional already-present Templar doing 'overtime', the Library doors remained quite Templar-less.

Which, her fellow apprentices had all come to agree, was something that needed to happen _far_ more often.

_oOo_

Two hours later, tired, frustrated, and smelling slightly of smoke and burnt hair, she made her way back to the Apprentice Quarters.

That hadn't been one of her best sessions.

They had gone over Primal spells. Again.

And she had failed _fantastically _at three of the four elements. Again.

Water was the only one she had ever shown a real knack for. Water and Ice. She could never seem to be able to maintain enough control over Fire and Lightning. Because, well… Fire—well, she had never done well with fire. And Lightning just seemed so… jumpy; it was hard to get a grasp on. It wasn't impossible, but it was annoying. And then there was Earth. Which apparently, she had _too _much control over. Or _it_ had control over _her_. But either way, no matter how much she willed it, that stuff just _wouldn't move._ She might as well try to win an arm-wrestling match with a Bronto, she had told her mentor once. With her pinky.

She'd stick to Ice, Spirit, and Creation, thanks.

_oOo_

She was glad to be rid of that smoky smell that had been stalking her. And those singed robes. Briefly, as she was wringing the water from her hair, she wondered exactly how many robes the Circle had lost thanks to a wayward spell or flight of concentration.

She smiled at the image of a giant, lightly smoking mountain of apprentice robes that appeared in her head.

_oOo_

There was a little less than an hour 'til dinner, and her friends all had lessons now.

She was done for the day, though. So, with _her _lessons through, she had changed into slightly more comfortable clothes.

Except now she was bored.

_Well'p_, back to the Library

They were allowed to take books out to bring back to bed. Provided the books be returned the following day before breakfast. (After all, there were only so many books. And _so_ many apprentices.)

And so, that's what she did.

She thought that she might take out something light. Maybe even a tome or two on Primal Magic to work on that assignment her mentor had given her after her wonderful display of incompetence.

At least, that's what she _planned_ to do. Until the Tranquil at the Library's head was so very kind to tell her that she had about five texts that were missing. And filed under her name.

And that she wasn't taking _anything_, not even a piece of blank vellum, through those doors until she was _"kind enough as to please return the Library's texts"_ because they were _"Property of the Circle of Magi"_ and that she was _"holding them without proper consent of their rightful owner,"_ and that she was _"going against Circle regulation"_ in addition to committing a _"legal offense."_

And, if she didn't know any better, she could have sworn the Tranquil was laughing at her.

Except she did know better.

Because Tranquils didn't laugh.

Right.

And so she trudged back to the Apprentice Quarters, spent a few minutes digging through her trunk and under her bed, and re-emerged finally with the five missing culprits: three tomes of study, A volume entitled _Magic and Mana: Theory and Practice, Vol. III_, and a smaller, black, leather-bound book with barely legible gold print and a scarlet ribbon stuck between the pages.

Oh. Her bookmark.

She had been looking for that.

Kind of frantically, actually.

And she still hadn't finished reading the book that it was marking. Partially because it had been buried under a pile of robes for the past few days, but that was beside the point.

She set the pile of books down on her trunk and picked up the little black book, letting it fall open to the page that the fabric bookmark was placed on. It was slightly faded and frayed, and was perhaps quite elegant-looking once upon a time.

But her constant habit on running her fingers over it, fiddling with it, and all-around abusing it while she read had taken care of _that._

But she loved it anyway. More than loved.

Cherished.

Because it was the only thing that left from her first home.

She closed the book back up, leaving the little ribbon dangling over the book's edge and stacked the texts back up, the smallest book on top. She'd ask to take the book out again, tonight. Hopefully, she'd finally finish the blasted thing.

She made her way through the almost deserted hallways and up the stairs, catching glimpses of spells and lectures.

And templars.

And she was more than three quarters of the way there, contemplating stopping for a moment to give her arms a break, when she Talked head-long into something.

And that 'something' responded with an "Ow."

She fell back, 'it' stumbled, and the books went flying.

_Oh, for Andraste's sake._

Grimacing and wincing, she got up and rubbed her backside. Stone flooring wasn't exactly the ideal material to cushion a fall.

"Oh. I'm sorry."

She looked up, frowning.

"I-I wasn't watching where I was going, and I got a little l-lost and—. I-I didn't mean to run into you like that, honest. I'm sorry."

Her frown disappeared, replaced by a mildly quizzical look as she eyed the cause of her collision.

He was a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, with ginger, slightly curly hair, a light trace of a beard, and brown eyes.

He was dressed in a traveler's cloak and looked more than a little tired, but he gave her a small (albeit nervous) smile all the same.

_And hey—he's not that bad looking._

Wait, what? She mentally slapped herself.

_No. Bad. No suddenly appraising random strangers' physical appearance—you're not Elsie. Bad, bad, bad._

"It's fine," she said, smiling back and bending down to pick up one of the tomes, "Don't worry about it."

He nodded, but she didn't see. She was too busy looking around, trying to locate where the other books had fallen. Which was proving much more difficult than it should have been.

Mostly because they weren't _there _anymore.

"A-are these yours?"

She looked up.

The man was standing in front of her, holding the other four texts in his arms.

Exactly how he had managed to pick them up so fast was beyond her.

"Well, technically they're the Circle's. But yeah—thanks." She held her arms out to take them from him.

But he didn't hand them over.

"Do- do you need help? Carrying these, I mean. They're kinda heavy."

Eyebrow raise.

"Erm—I—thanks for the offer, but I'm headed in the opposite direction, actually. I need to return these to the Library."

"Oh." She thought she heard the slightest hint of disappointment in his voice.

"You said you got lost?" She said, quickly, wondering if she had offended him. She found it a little hard to believe that he had gotten lost; the Tower wasn't _that _confusing a place. But then again, she _had_ lived there her entire life.

Harder to believe, still was not the fact that the man in front of her had _gotten _lost, but that he _could _get lost.

People in the Tower had usually been there a long time. And they definitely didn't walk around in traveling cloaks.

A visitor?

That was hard to believe, too; generally, people did their best to _avoid _that giant, looming fortress in the middle of Lake Calenhad that was full of horrid, dangerous demon-children.

"Y-yeah. I was looking for the F-First Enchanter's office. Do-do you know where that is?"

Double-eyebrow raise.

"Yes," she said slowly, "I do… Would you like me to show you?" She frowned slightly, briefly wondering why in the Maker's name she was being so hospitable towards this man.

"Oh!" He brightened, but the smile faded quickly. "Oh, but I thought you said you were headed in the other direction?"

"I am." She said, "And you should be, too. You really _are _lost, aren't you?"

He swallowed, his ears turning a light pink.

She gave a light laugh.

"Don't worry," she muttered, turning away, "The First Enchanter's office isn't too far away from where I'm headed. You can come with me, if you like."

And so he did.

They walked in silence, mostly, with the exception of the man's occasional remark of "Wow, the Tower's big," or "Huh, that's a rather strange-looking statue," from behind the stack of books he was carrying (he had refused to give them back, insisting that it was both an apology for running in to her and a thanks for her pointing showing him where to go).

"Oh," she said finally, coming to a stop in front of the Library's double-doors. "Here." She turned to her temporary shadow and gave another small smile. "I can take those back now. Thanks a lot for your help."

The man nodded and carefully transferred the pile of texts to her, as if he wasn't sure if her arms would break off or not once the rest of the books had been given to her.

"Thanks," she said again, "Now the First Enchanter's office is just three doors down, continuing on this side. It's right across from the stairs, the last door in the hall; you can't miss it. Of course," she muttered as an after-thought, "Irving _might _not be in there. He tends to wander."

"Oh." The man looked disappointed. Or what it nervous?

"But he probably will be," she said quickly. The poor man looked nervous enough as it was. "He usually is around this time."

He nodded, though not completely reassured. "R-right. Th-thanks so much for your he-help."

She nodded back.

"U-um, if you don't mind," he said rather quickly, "M-may I ask you your n-name? I'm C-Cullen."

She resisted the urge to give him a 'whoa-did-you-just-grow-another-head?' sort of look.

"Solana. Solana Amell."

He nodded again, giving her his small, nervous smile and thanked her one last time before he headed off towards Irving's office.

* * *

_**A/N:** A book-dropping collision? Jeeze, how much more cheesy could I GET? D: And yes, I was lame and used the default name. c:  
As always, reviews are loved.~_


	3. Chapter 2

_**A/N: **Happy late Independence Day! And for those of you who aren't in the US, well... Happy fourth of July? xD  
Oh, and I have two different types of page-breakers: ".oOo." and ".x.X.x.". The first is for a time-shift while the latter is to indicate a POV-shift. Just to save you guys any initial confusion. :P  


* * *

_**  
Birds of a Feather**  
Chapter 2

"So, did you hear? Apparently ol' Greagoir's finally found some poor sap to replace Ser What's-His-Face."

"Yeah?" Amell gave a short laugh as she pulled her robes over her head and began to search around for her night clothes. "Too bad; I was just beginning to get used to the idea of being able to study without worrying about getting my head chopped off at any given moment."

There was a murmur of 'I know, right?'s from her fellow apprentice mages.

"Yeah, yeah." The girl who had started to conversation waved a dismissive hand, as if the idea of having your head separated from your body wasn't_ nearly _as important as what she had to say. "But have you seen him? The replacement, I mean. Apparently this Templar is _cute._"

One of the apprentices made a choking noise while the others stared at the young elf as if had said one of the most blasphemous things on the face of the earth.

Which she pretty much _had._

"Whoa. Elsie. Wait. Just _wait."_ Choking fit now over, one of the girls had decided to take up the task of trying to knock some sense into her obviously delusional friend. "Key word there: _Templar_. You know, as in the guys with swords? Sharp, pointy swords? Pointed at _us?_"

The girl called Elsie sighed, slumping a little in defeat. "I know, I know. It's just—well, it can't hurt to _look_, right?"

"Oh, no. Of course not. Unless they think that 'looking' is a demon's way of trying to _bury its way into their soul_—_"_

A snicker, "Or lack there of."

"—Which you know, is a conclusion that Templars _usually_ come to. Besides, I thought you liked that other apprentice. What's his name? Jowan?"

"Not anymore," Elsie frowned slightly. "Even I'm not stupid enough to get mixed up with… you know. _That._"

"And what, pre-tell, is '_that'_?" Amell had found and donned her night dress and returned to the nightly Circle of Gossip.

"Oh!" Her elven friend looked up, startled. "Y-you haven't heard?"

She and the others shook their heads.

"I-I've heard that's been accused of, well, you know…" Elsie paused, uncertain. Then her voice dropped to a whisper and she looked over her shoulder as if she expected that what she were about to say might cause a herd of mad, stampeding Templars to burst through the door, weapons at the ready. After confirming that there was indeed no mass of armed guards standing outside the room the girl turned back to the group, her eyes wide and her voice barely audible. "_Blood magic."_

Dead silence.

"O-of course, it's only a rumor! You know me—gossip, gossip, gossip, right?" She laughed nervously, obviously sorry she had brought the subject up.

The others weren't convinced.

Amell stared, mouth open.

"Blood Magic" was not an accusation you made—or repeated—lightly.

"S-so," someone finally said, causing a welcome snap in the room's tension, "A-about that Templar guy—what was his name?"

"Oh!" Elsie looked relieved to have a change of subject. "Um—let's see… Crowling, was it? No… Cuplin, maybe? Oh, I remember! His name's Cullen."

It was Amell's turn to do the choking, now.

_oOo_

She hadn't had the courage to head back to the Library. Heck, she hadn't even had the courage to go _near_ it.

And she hadn't seen Jowan lately, either.

_Not_ good.

And so she was getting antsy and feverish and starting to wish _desperately_ for something to do.

But there was only so much a mage-apprentice_ could _do. And once her lessons were done for the day she no longer trusted herself to go near her literature-based haven, that number was sharply reduced.

And worrying about Jowan _wasn't_ one of the funner 'distractions'.

So she turned to her once-again overdue books.

And she still hadn't touched that little black book that she had been _trying _to read for _forever_.

Because _that_ reminded her of _him_, which _wasn't_ something she was keen on being reminded of.

Because the idea of seeing the that stranger— the stranger that had actually treated her like a _human-being _instead of some empty demon-vessel— decked out in the oh-so-shiny Templar armor was _not_ an appealing thought.

She knew shew as being silly.

So stab her.

_Which, _she reminded herself grimly, _he'd probably be __**more**__ than happy to do._ Now that she was back in her mage robes and all.

And he was in his Templar armor.

But, even _she _could make do with the same couple of books for so long. And that book had more or less been _begging _her to finish reading it.

So, finally, she consented.

And that's when she started to panic.

She had found the book okay—burrowed its way to the bottom of her trunk—but what she _couldn't_ find was her bookmark.

And the only possible place and way she could think to have lost it was when she had crashed into _him._

_oOo_

She had fretted for half the day, wondering whether or not it was worth risking running into the Templar.

She decided it was.

And that she was being stupid.

Because he was a Templar and she was a mage and it was inevitable that _some _time or another they _would _end up running into eachother (especially if he was posted outside of the damn _library_) so she might as well get it over with and make that _'sometime'_ a _'now'._

Besides, there was a chance that she had dropped it _before_ she had run into the guy, or even on her way _to _the Library and she'd find it before she'd even have to come within eyesight of the place's doors. And even if she _did_ there was _another_ chance that he might not be there at all.

She kicked herself the entire way, scanning the ground. She knew she shouldn't have let the guy carry those books. She _knew_ it.

He had probably realized that the ribbon was important to her using his all-mighty, mind-reading _Templar-senses_ and then hidden the thing away somewhere just to spite her.

Or eaten it.

Okay, now she was being _really_ silly.

Amell shook the feeling of paranoia from her mind and squinted her eyes, going over to an unlighted corner of the hall in hopes of finding the bookmark.

No luck.

Her frown deepened and she chewed her lip straightening back up.

It looked like she was going to have to back-track her way to the Library after all.

She moved quickly but cautiously— perhaps a little _too _cautiously, judging by the look one of the Templars gave her.

But she ignored this.

And just when she thought that maybe, just _maybe_, she'd be able to run in, have a look around, and run out, she saw the very same ginger-haired guard that she was hoping to avoid.

And, rounding a corner, _Elsie_ saw _her._

"Hey, Solana!"

She winced— not at the greeting but at the volume it was said at and the attention that it was sure to draw. But all the same she turned to face her friend, who was now sprinting to catch up. "Hi."

The girl named Elsie stopped in front of her, looking ecstatic; her pale face was flushed with excitement and her mousy brown hair strewn about, its owner too distracted at the moment to be bothered with making it stay in place.

And she could feel the Templar's eyes on the back of her head. Or maybe she was just being paranoid.

But either way, she didn't like it.

"I'd wondered where you've been. Not in the library, not in our dorms—I was beginning to think you might've fallen off of the Tower or something. But anyways, hey, listen, I—"

Elsie paused a moment, stopping in mid sentence, her eyes flickering to something over Amell's shoulder and her gaze lingered there for a moment, the strangest cross of curiosity, appraisal, and wariness written on the girl's face.

_Maker,_ Amell rolled her eyes but smiled all the same. _If you're going to stare at him, at least be more discreet about it._

Elsie. Discreet. Hah.

"You wanted to tell me something?"

"Oh, yeah." Elsie's attention jumped back to the other girl and she grabbed her hand, pulling her back towards the direction of the Apprentice Quarters and ignoring the ensuing protests. "So I just got out of my lesson today and I heard your mentor talking with Niall; they were talking about the next Harrowing. And I _think _it might be _yours_."  
This peaked her curiosity and she let up for a moment. And, actually, she was _glad_ to be given a reason to get as far away as possible from the Library and its Templar-guard. So she allowed herself to be half lead, half dragged back down the hallway, Elsie chatting away excitedly in a poorly-contained whisper all the while.

_.x.X.x._

Cullen watched her go, dragged away by her rather hyper friend in mage robes.

Mage robes.

Friend.

Mage robes.

_Mage_.

They had been wearing the standard, Tower-issued, apprentice-grade mage robes. Both of them.

They were mages.

Cullen continued to stare long after she had disappeared.

He was… confused.

Solana, right? That's what her friend had called her.

She had the same name as the girl that he had run into while trying to find Irving's office— Solana.

And she looked the same, too.

"_Solana. Solana Amell."_

But she was wearing mage robes.

Which meant that she was a mage.

And _that_ meant that she shouldn't have been nearly as nice to him as she had; she _couldn't_ have.

Because she was a mage.

And every Templar knew that mages were dangerous and demonic and definitely _not_ nice.

But she _had_ been nice. And not even slightly demon-ish at all. Which clearly meant that either _he _or the world had gone mad.

Cullen settled on the world; questioning his own sanity was something that he generally tried to avoid.

His brow furrowed in thought as he tried to sort out the whole 'your-world-just-got-turned-up-side-down-in-a-matter-of-seconds' thing.

It didn't work so well.

Because that girl— that _mage_— had been _nice_.

_Really _nice.

And she had helped him. And _smiled_ at him. And she hadn't tried to maim or kill or take over his mind at all.

And that was just _confusing_

_.X.x.X._

She was grateful of her friend's timing, she thought as she lay on back in the Apprentice Quarters a while later. She really hadn't been sure what she would have done if the Templar had recognized her. Or tried to talk to her.

Well, she'd probably have asked Elsie to pinch her.

Or slap her. Hard.

But, grateful or not, she still didn't have her bookmark. She hadn't even really looked_._

And she'd be damned if she lost the thing without even having properly _searched_.

And to do _that_ she needed to make another hunting trip to the Library.

_Oh, __**goody**__._

So she resolved to head back there before dinner and pray not to run into any more obstacles.

_oOo_

Her praying did her little good. Because here he was, obstacle _numero uno_, still standing guard in front of the library doors, dressed in his armor.

His Templar armor.

Because he was a Templar.

She wondered for a moment how much of Templar training was learning how to not die of boredom—or stiffness—from standing in the same spot all day.

But she shook herself knocked her thoughts back into the present; she had more important things to than to worry about whether any _Templar_ had ever keeled from simple lack of mental stimulation or not.

_Well,_ she thought humorlessly, _Looking for a lost ribbon isn't a crime. He doesn't have the grounds to run me through… Yet_**.**

And so, she put _her_ armor— her mage armor.

Because she was a mage.

And her posture straightened and her expression went cold and the twinkle in her eye disappeared she faced forward and she walked. And she was about ten steps away from the Library's doors and was thinking that maybe, just _maybe_ he didn't remember her (or at least he wouldn't be stupid enough say anything about it) when he proved her wrong.

Because he did. And apparently, he was.

"My… my lady?"

She resisted the impulse to wince. Because if she did, that would have meant that she had heard him, acknowledged him. Which— and she was intent on making this _very _clear—she had _not._

And besides, no Templar in their right mind— or _person_, for that matter— would address a _mage_ with such courtesy. And even if they _did_ (or if he was just crazy), _'my lady'_ was a very ambiguous way of addressing _anyone_; he could have been calling out to someone over her shoulder. Or across the hall. Or on the other side of the _lake_ for all shecared.

_And_, she reassured herself, _he probably was._

"So-Solana?"

And then she froze.

Now she had no choice but to accept the fact that he was, indeed, speaking to her. He was speaking to her and _not_ some girl over her shoulder or across the room_. _

_Because,_ she remembered dryly_, there __**was**__ nobody else— 'lady' or otherwise— around. _

And there was _certainly_ nobody else named _'Solana'_ around.

So, her jaw set, she stopped and turned to face the Templar that had said her name.

_Name. _She, a mage. Addressed first as 'my lady' and then her by her _name_. _First. Name. _By a _Templar!_

Either he really _was_ crazy or the world had simply gone _mad_.

And as she turned her eyes landed on the sword-and-leaf symbol that was engraved into his chestplate; the Templars' symbol.

Because he was a Templar.

And her stomach clenched and her body stiffened and she felt just a picayune trace of a fear that she had not held since her earliest days as an apprentice as she realized that _she did not want to be this close to a Templar._

But she kept her expression calm and her armor sealed and she looked up anyways, ignoring the unpleasant, jerking tingle that had started in her now-sweaty palms. And as she did so her cold stare met his soft eyes and she said with an icy curtness, "Yes?"

And, for a split second, the man looked as if she had _shouted_ at him; he was now blushing at the ears and shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

And for a moment, just for a moment, she almost felt _guilty_.

Almost.

She crossed her arms and looked at him, her expression still stone.

"Um," he said, shifting his weight again as he stumbled over his own words, looking very unguard-like. "I, uh…"

And she listened to him stutter and watched him shift around and she tried not to smirk. And maybe it was just her, but it almost seemed as if he had shrunken back a little; perhaps caught off-guard, or maybe even a little intimidated by her demeanor.

Intimidated. He, a _Templar_. Intimidated. By her, a _mage_. Hah.

"Y-you're S-Solana, right?" His eyes were darting from hers to the ground, unable to keep proper contact, "I… I, um, heard your fr-friend say it."

_Oh._

She felt something shift in her conscience, but she wasn't sure if the feeling was one of relief or _disappointment_.

_So maybe he didn't remember, after all._

"Y-y-you're that girl— that girl who h-helped me a few ni-nights ago, r-right? I- I, um, got lost and… You- you, uh, told me your name th-then, too. I-I'm Cullen, r-remember…?"

_Oh. Well. So much for __**that**__ idea._

"Yes," she said again, unfolding and re-folding her arms, "I remember; you were looking for Irving's office."

"Y-yes!" He relaxed just slightly in his posture, letting out a breath, relieved that she had confirmed his memory and that he hadn't just imagined the whole thing.  
"Do you need something?" She sighed, sounding a fair bit more tired than she had intended, "Because I'm busy."

"Wh-what? Oh…" The Templar looked at her, doing a _very_ good impression of a small puppy who had just been reprimanded for trying to do nothing but play with its master's shoe. "N-no, I… I, um, just thought I'd say h-hi, is all."

She looked at him incredulously.

'_Just say __**hi**__'? _

_Yes_, she thought, _Yes, this man really __**was **__crazy._

"You… are aware that I am a _mage_, right?"

"I—" Cullen looked at her, as if unsure why she was bringing this up, or what he should do about it. "Yes," His eyes darted to her robes quickly. "I am."

_Right. And you're a Templar. Which means that you're supposed to glare at me and threaten me and try to cut off my head if I so much as __**sneeze**__—not _"just say hi".

"Okay," her frown lessened a little and her eyes softened and she uncrossed her arms, "I—I was just… checking."

"Um, I-I'm sorry if I'm, uh, b-bothering you," he said, eyes glued to the stone tile, "Y-you d-don't have t-to t-t-talk to me, if you don't w-want.

Was it just her, or was he stuttering even worse than before?

"No, it's fine," she said quietly, "I was just… looking for something…"

"O-oh!" He brightened and looked up.

And just then, for a reason she didn't know of, she forgot that he was standing there in Templar armor guarding the Library, and not in a traveling cloak just trying to find his way around an unfamiliar place.

And she smiled at him.

"I-I, uh, found this a few d-days ago. A-a f-few rooms d-down." He held out a small, tattered, scarlet ribbon, "Um, i-is it y-yours?"

She stared at it.

And blinked.

And blinked again.

"Yeah," she muttered, reaching out to take it, "Yeah, it is… Thanks…"

He withdrew from her touch as soon as she had taken it.

_Oh, _she frowned inwardly, _So he really __**does**__ know I'm a mage after all._

"I'm, uh, s-sorry I didn't r-return it earlier. I th-thought you might st-stop by the Li-Library and l-look for it, so I j-just waited, b-but…" he trailed off.

"No," she said quietly, her mental 'irony' alarm sounding with fervor, "It's fine. My fault, I've been busy."

And, across the room the grandfather clock chimed, and there was the sudden sound of movement from the classrooms and dorms as the dinner hour finally arrived and the apprentices and enchanters alike filed through the halls down to the Dining Hall after a hard day's spell casting.

"Thank you again," she said, turning away from the Templar, "For returning it, I mean. I'm surprised you didn't just throw it out—a ratty thing like this."

"N-no, I th-thought it m-m-might b-be yours, so I…"

She nodded again, but this time in a dismissive sort of way and gathered up her armor and started to walk away, melting into the rest of the dinner-bound mage-herd. "Yeah… thanks."


	4. Chapter 3

_**A/N: **Short chapter, sorry! And thanks so much to those of you who have been leaving reviews and advice! I'm taking them to heart, I promise!_**  


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**Birds of a Feather**  
Chapter 3

Cullen was confused. And tired.

But mostly confused.

Because that apprentice girl was strange. And not in the usual magely 'I-can-make-lightning-appear-just-by-thinking-about-it' sort of way, either.

But she was strange because she was a mage… except she didn't always _act_ like one.

At least, he didn't _think _she did.

Because she had laughed. And thanked him. And _smiled _at him.

But she had also frowned at him. And looked at him with unfeeling eyes. And just acted so _cold_.

But then she had smiled again.

Cullen was very, very confused.

He hadn't spoken to her since almost a week ago, when he had returned her ribbon.

But he had seen her in the halls, going to and from wherever it was that mage-apprentices went, and she had glanced at him, letting him know he hadn't turned invisible. But that was all.

Actually from the way she _did _glance at him, Cullen found himself sometimes wishing he _were_ invisible.

Because her eyes were distant. And cold.

And she and her friends walked with a purpose and a certain pride about them that made him feel just so… _inadequate_.

And she _hadn't_ smiled at him.

And finally, his insecurity and wondering got the better of him. So he asked one of his fellow Templars, Ser Jovian, why the mages always seemed so… unfriendly.

"_Unfriendly?_" Jovian echoed in disbelief, scoffing, "To say the _least_. Listen," he said, putting his arm around Cullen's shoulder in a brotherly sort of fashion, "Cullen, I know you're new to guarding and everything, and I'm not so sure what the mages _you_ encountered were like, but here in the Tower, mages are nothing but haughty, arrogant little pricks."

Cullen stared at him.

"What? You think I'm being too harsh?" He laughed coldly, sitting back and putting his legs up on the Dining Hall's table, "Come on. You've noticed. Otherwise you wouldn't be _asking_ me this; those mages walk around all day either trapped in their damn books or going around like _royalty_, like they're _too good_ for us or something. You can see it in that look they give us—they'd want nothing better than to turn us into toads. Or a pile of ashes. They think their magic makes them so much better than us; except they don't know how to _control_ it and then they end up blowing something—some_one_— up or running off to practice _Blood Magic, _thinking they're _too_ _clever_ to be caught. That we won't _find _them.

"Believe me, Cullen when I say that mages are nothing but trouble."

And with that, he swung his feet back onto the ground, heaved his shoulders to adjust his armor, grabbed his sword from where it was propped up against the table, and sidled nonchalantly out of the room, leaving a now very, _very_ confused Cullen in his wake.

_.X.x.X._

"Hey, Sol," Elsie said absent mindedly, lying on her back on the bunk over friend's.

"Mm?"

"You don't seem to be going to the Library as much as you usually do."

"…Mm."

"How come?"

She shrugged, "Mmm-mm-mm."

"Did that Tranquil finally ban you from making off with his precious books? Or does it have something to do with that _Templar_, maybe? _Hmm_?"

Amell almost choked.

Some people considered her friend a little ditzy and shallow, always caught up in the latest tale of who-did-what and what's-going-to-happen-now, but Elsie could be very insightful and observant at times—though usually not in the typical bookish sort of way that one would have expected from a mage. She had to be, after all, in order to keep on top of the latest news and happenings around the Tower.

"Don't be ridiculous," Amell snapped.

"I knew it!" Elsie's voice was giddy with excitement as she swung herself over the top bunk to join her friend down below. "Hah! _You _think he's cute, too!"

She rolled her eyes. _Well, yes…_ _But there's a little more to it than that._

"You're such a coward!" Elsie said gleefully. "You should go talk to him!"

_I __**have**__._

"But he's a Templar."

"So?"

"_So_, I'm a _mage._ He'd probably just think I was trying to suck out his life and eat him for dinner or something. And then he'd try to stab me in the gut. And that wouldn't be pretty."

"Bah. You should still go talk to him," Elsie muttered, crossing her arms—but she didn't sound too convinced anymore.

_- o -_

She had gotten up go get a glass of water and take a break from her when she saw him.

He was sitting at the Dining Hall's table, apparently having been given a break from playing Statue all day.

And he was reading.

Had that book come from the Circle? She frowned a little bit, trying to make out the book's title from where she stood; it was hard to imagine a Templar reading anything having to do with magic.

Unless, you know, the reading was about _killing_ magic.

But there he was, Templar armor and all, reading _Magic and Mana, Vol. I._

Which was about _using_ magic— not destroying it.

Yes. Yes, the world had _definitely_ gone mad.

It didn't look like he'd noticed her yet. She considered forgetting her water and just getting the heck out of there. But her mage's curiosity got the better of her.

And so, she walked up, stopping a few feet behind him.

And he still didn't notice her.

"You… are a very strange Templar," she muttered looking over his shoulder.

He jumped and slammed the book shut and whirled around, stuttering, "I-I-I wasn't really d-doing anything, I was just c-curious about—" He stopped, realizing who it was who had spoken.

And his stuttering resumed, accompanied now by a distinctly pink tint that had taken up residence across his cheeks, neck, and ears. "O-Oh! I-it's only y-you. I-I mean, I'm- I'm g-g-_glad_ it's you, b-but I thought t-that m-maybe…"

"I was a Templar? Or _Greagoir_?"

The pink turned to red and he fell silent, hurriedly turning away.

"So," she said after a moment, "Why _are _you reading that thing, anyways? That's usually for apprentices. _Mage _apprentices. And _you're_ not a mage."

"J-just, um, cu-curious," he mumbled, trying all-too-late to cover up the book's title.

"Abouuut?"

He had resumed his silence, fidgeting nervously.

"Fine, don't answer," she said, giving a dismissive wave of her hand as she turned to walk away.

"I—w-wait!"

She stopped.

"I—" he seemed uncertain what to do now that she had heeded his call, "Um, is… Is it true? That the m-mages want to turn us all into t-toads, I mean."

She gawked.

He fidgeted.

And after a moment she found her voice again. "_What?_" She gaped.

"I—it's, uh, just that I h-heard someone s-say that you—I mean your kind—I mean mages! Well, that, uh, they- they w-wanted to turn all the Templars into, um, t-t-toads or something."

Realizing her mouth was still hanging open she closed it. But she continued to stare. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or be angry or just go find a bucket of ice-water to dunk her head in or _what._

Finally, she settled on answering his question. "No, that's not true… Who, in the Maker's name, told you _that_?"

"I, um, uh…I just heard it…"

_Riiiight._

"Do you believe everything you hear?"

"N-no, but—" He stopped, looking like a man about to confess to murder.

"But…?"

"But I was talking to someone about mages and how they always seemed so cold and I was wondering why they always seemed so distant and he said that was the reason and that they thought that it would be better if we were all just piles of ash or toads or frogs or something." He said this all very fast and in one breath, not even having time to trip over his words.

She noticed his use of the word _they_ instead of _you _and she wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or appreciative at his careful avoidance of bringing her, specifically, into the subject—even though they both knew she was already there.

But she decided that didn't really matter at the moment because her mouth was hanging back open again and she felt a little dizzy.

And from the look on Cullen's face, it showed. Because he was eying her both apprehensively and worriedly and looked like he had half a mind to jump up and go make sure that she stayed vertical.

But he didn't. And she did.

But she did go sit down next to him—which caused him to flinch a little as she took her seat on the bench. But she was too dazed to take notice.

_Cold? __**He **_had called _**them**__ cold?_ Oh, this was rich. Just _rich_.

"Mages," she said, rubbing her temples, "Do _not_ want to turn Templars into _toads_."

_In fact, I don't think any of us know how, really._

"Oh—" Cullen sounded more than a little relieved, "Good."

_But it would be nice if we could turn those blasted swords into something a little less… pointy._

"And whoever told you that is stupid and paranoid and not worth listening to," She said as she got up. "I need to get back to my work. Let's—let's just forget this whole conversation, okay?"

"Oh, um, o-okay."

And, as she headed back to the Apprentice Quarters she realized that maybe, just maybe he had been looking up whether or not that book said anything about toads.


	5. Chapter 4

_**A/N:** Another short chapter, guys. Sorry! I promise the next one'll be longer.~  


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**Birds of a Feather**  
Chapter 4

She was beginning to think that Elsie might have been wrong for once.

Actually, she was kind of _hoping_ that Elsie had been wrong for once. Or twice.

Because she had (finally) seen Jowan yesterday, outside the Tower's Chapel (and certainly not doing any Blood Magic that _she_ could see) and had waved to him and he had waved back.

And because she hadn't heard a _thing_ about a Harrowing—hers or otherwise—in the past week.

And, with she and Cullen having reached friendly-enough terms, and the whole turning-Templars-into-toads thing out of her mind, she was feeling quite at peace.

At least until she saw Jowan again. Because he looked worried.

And that made her worried.

Because Jowan was not a 'worried' sort of guy.

"Jowan? What's up? You look… uneasy."

"I-I—never mind that. Listen, Sol. I'm supposed to tell you that Irving wants to see you in his office."

"What for?"

He shrugged distractedly, "Don't know."

"Jowan…"

He looked up, "Y-yes?"

"Tell me what's bothering you."

"Oh…" he frowned. "Well… I was just… thinking."

"Uh-huh…"

"And something—well, something just doesn't feel right."

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean_" he said impatiently, "That something's wrong. With me. With my Harrowing."

"But you haven't had yours yet."

"Exactly! I've heard that they're thinking about giving yours any day now! And I've been here two years longer than you and so far _nothing_."

"Maybe you're just not ready yet."

Jowan laughed shortly. "Oh, come on, Sol. You and I both know that's not true."

She grimaced. Jowan was one of the best and most competent apprentices there was. And he had a point. "I'm sure they'll call you soon," she said, trying to soothe him.

"No, they won't." He groaned, putting his head in his hands,"Not with the rumors about me going around."

She stared at him, "You mean the rumors about your being a…"

"A Blood Mage?" He grimaced, "Yep. Those are the ones."

"But that's ridiculous! I mean, you're _not_, are you?"

"Of course not!"

"Then you have nothing to worry about!" She said earnestly. "I'm sure you just need to wait a little longer, is all."

"Yeah," Jowan muttered, sounding none-too-convinced. "Yeah… Maybe you're right."

_.X.x.X._

_Well, _she thought grimly as ascended the steps to the Harrowing Chamber, flanked by two helmed Templars, _Elsie had been right about __**one **__thing._

She had heard stories of Harrowings. Failed ones.

And they weren't exactly comforting bedtime tales, either.

Because apparently, failure warranted death. At the hands of your very own, personal, pre-chosen Templar-executioner.

As if the idea of just _facing_ the Harrowing wasn't enough.

And then she, along with the two Templars that flanked her, came to a stop on the stairs' landing and the one on her right knocked twice and pushed open the door.

She was hit with cold. The Harrowing Chamber, despite being on the top floor, must have been at least twenty degrees colder than the rest of the tower.

She felt goose-bumps materialize on her arms, though she wasn't sure if it was because of the temperature's plummeting or her stomach's.

Probably both.

She swallowed down her nervousness and stepped forward, the two men that had 'accompanied' her going off to the side to join their fellow Templars.

Her eyes darted around, taking in the fabled chamber. Mages entered this chamber one, and only once, in their entire time in the Circle; for their Harrowing. And if they succeeded, they were to never speak of it again. And if they didn't, well…

Even through the pit in her stomach she was determined to take in as much of the circular room as possible to try and satiate her curiosity.

Until her eyes landed on Cullen.

And she froze.

Because here he was, standing tall in his armor, looking straight ahead, past her, expression set and serious, sword drawn and pointed toward the ground, in front of the Fade Portal. Right at the executioner's post.

She felt the pit in her stomach swallow it up. As well as a fair number of her other internal organs.

Finally, she realizing that she had come to a halt in the middle of the room, she started to walk again.

She could feel their eyes on her. Irving's, Greagoir's. The Templars'. Everyone's.

Everyone's except Cullen's.

And she wasn't sure whether grateful or upset because of it.

_.X.x.X._

The doors opened and three figures walked in: her and two other Templars, assigned the duty of 'escorting' her to her test.

And his stomach lurched and he felt the grip on his sword almost slip as she entered and looked around and tried, just for a second, to catch his eye.

But he wouldn't let her. He couldn't.

Not with his sword drawn like this.

And then she gave up, and he wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed that she had.

Because, should she fail, he was to be her executioner at the end of her Harrowing.

His Harrowing.

_Their_ Harrowing.

And that was one idea that he was _not _eager to think about.

And then she started walking again—towards the pedestal, towards him.

And he could feel his hands sweating beneath their metal gloves and he kept his back straight, his face expressionless, and his eyes forward, staring past her.

Because if he looked at her now, well…

And then from some place far away, his Commander started to speak.

And when he was done, she stepped towards him.

_No_, he corrected himself, _Towards the pedestal. She's stepping towards the __**pedestal**__._

And he knew this because her gaze was fixed, not on him, but on the blue glow that was emanating from the stone structure.

And then she held her hand out above the light and he held his breath and her eyes went blank and her muscles relaxed and she clipped the last string of consciousness that tethered her to this world and she dived into the Fade.

_- o -_

He watched her as she 'slept,' sitting in a chair that had been placed in front of the pedestal.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of it; she was awake, but she wasn't awake. Her eyes were closed, but then they would open and look at him but not _see _him; they would just flicker back and forth, following some un-real motion and shut again, still flickering.

_It's like she's dreaming,_ he thought, _Having a nightmare… and she can't wake up._

And _he_ couldn't wake her up, no matter how much he wanted to.

Because this was her Harrowing, and that wasn't allowed.

And so, he watched. As the hours ticked by she sat in her chair and flickered her eyes and he watched.

Because that was all he could do.

And he prayed that was all he would _have _to do.

And then Greagoir took out his pocket watch and turned to Irving. "It's half." He said.

And Cullen knew what he was talking about— they all did; half of the allowed time for her Harrowing had gone by; which meant that if that same amount of time passed again…

Cullen looked down at his sword and swallowed.

How long did Harrowings usually take, he wondered. He had never done guard one before and had only heard stories from his companions.

And even though his shifts at the Library door were _much_ longer, Cullen couldn't help but feel antsy.

He both wanted this to be over and didn't; because if the Harrowing was finished before _she_ was… Cullen glanced at Greagoir who gave him a strange, almost sympathetic look.

Which didn't help.

How much time had gone by? Greagoir had the only clock in here, and he had stuffed it back into his armor.

It felt like hours. Hours and hours.  
But Cullen knew that _couldn't_ have been hours because Greagoir hadn't said anything at all and Irving hadn't begun to pace up and down like he did when he was nervous.

So that meant everything was still okay… right?

And Cullen was just beginning to doubt the all right-ness of things again when the mage in front of him coughed. And jerked.

And he, and the Templars around him tensed, and a few of their hands when instinctively to their swords, preparing for the worst.

Cullen felt himself switch over to auto-pilot as he raised his sword and leveled it a few inches away from her very un-guarded neck, waiting for Greagior's command.

And the seconds ticked by, lasting longer than any of the hours ever had. And, as he stood there behind her the wild thought that maybe he could use his sword to cut the tension in the room instead of what he had been _assigned_ to do crossed his mind.

But he knew that he couldn't. And wouldn't. Because he had his duty and his orders to follow.

And his grip around the hilt of the sword tightened even further and he was sure that, any moment now, Greagoir would determine her Harrowing failure. Or that she, or rather, a demon version of she, might try to jump up and attack them before any of them had the chance to prevent this.

But neither of those thing happened. There was no "Off with her head" from the Commander, nor violent fits of Abomonation-ing from the mage.

There was just another cough. And a flutter of non-flickering, opening eyes.

And, standing behind her, Cullen saw what she saw; first the Fade Pedestal, then a line very tense, very nervous Templars with their weapons half-drawn, and finally a relieved-looking Irving and an apprehensive-looking Greagoir.

And then her eyes fell shut and she slumped back into the chair, unconscious once again.


	6. Chapter 5

**_A/N:_**_ Okay, I lied. Not longer at all. Sowwie. :c  


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**Birds of a Feather**  
Chapter 5

He saw her the following day around seven in the evening. She looked a little distracted, he noticed, but smiled at him all the same.

Which made him smile.

"Hello, Cullen," She said, coming up to him.

"Oh, um, h-hello. I… uh, am glad to see that your Harrowing went smoothly."

"Oh," she said, her smile fading a little. "Thank you."

"I, uh, I'm glad you're all right."

And then there was silence. And he found himself hoping that Solana's talkative elf-friend would suddenly appear from around the corner to fill the sound-void, or even whisk the mage away so that he might be saved from the feeling of trepidation that was beginning to prey upon him.

"Cullen," She said after a moment, "Would you really have struck me down? If I had failed, I mean."

And he started and looked up and was silent for a moment longer before turned his gaze, finally looking her in the eyes. "Yes."

"Oh…" She said repeated. "I see."

And then he turned away again, feeling as though he had just been dropped from a great height. "I would have felt terrible about it," he said solemnly, "But I serve the Chantry and the Maker, and I will do as I am commanded."

She remained silent and he felt a sharp stab of guilt. "It's my duty… As a Templar— I'm sorry."

And, for a split-second, he though he saw her flinch at the word.

"Don't be," she said.

He cringed at the brevity of her words.

And then she smiled at him. But it wasn't a _smile_ smile; it was an empty one, made to fill the space that had amassed between them.

"Excuse me, I shouldn't distract you from your duties."

"Y-you're not distracting me," He said quickly, "Well, I mean you are, but… Y-you're welcome to talk to me a-anytime you'd like."

But she just nodded once and turned away. "Yeah… thanks."

And something told Cullen that she wouldn't be taking him up on his offer any time soon.

_.X.x.X._

First her Harrowing, then Jowan.

She wondered why she even _thought_ about questioning Elsie's all-knowledgeable source of information-gossip anymore.

And she allowed herself to let out the sigh that had been building up inside of her for days as she headed back to the Apprentice Quarters to fetch her things—her things that she _should _have been going to get to move up into mage dorms like _most_ apprentices did after passing their Harrowing. Except she wasn't. Because apparently, she was an exception. Because _most _apprentices-just-turned-mages didn't get hauled away, their fate decided for them, for a journey to Ostagar with a Grey Warden named Duncan.

Because that, apparently, was her 'punishment' for helping the newly-found Maleficar, Jowan, escape.

Maleficar.

Jowan.

She shook her head, frowning.

She had tried to help him— really, she had. She knew that she was going against Circle rules—and risking her magic (and quite possibly her life) in doing so— but she had wanted to help Jowan… she had wanted to help her friend.

Her friend who had lied to her.

And used Blood Magic.

And gotten away.

And she was angry. Angry and hurt. She was angry at him for lying about practicing Blood Magic. Angry at _herself_ for believing those lies. Angry at him for being stupid enough to practice it in the _first _place.

And, she was angry at herself for _not_ being _more_ angry about the way things turned out.

Because Jowan had escaped.

And she was _happy_ about it. And though she _did _feel guilty, she couldn't help it.

Because she didn't want to see Jowan die. Or made Tranquil.

And even though Blood Magic was bad and Jowan was an idiot, she still considered him a friend. And friends didn't want to see each other killed. Or worse.

But then she finished packing her bag and her thoughts of Jowan were pushed away, replaced by worries about the daunting journey ahead of her. So, she made her way back to the First Enchanter's office where Duncan was waiting.

And on her way there she passed Cullen. She didn't look at him.

Though she thought that she sensed that _he_ was looking at her.

And then she turned right; and whether or not she looked at him or he looked at her didn't matter anymore.

Because now she was leaving both the Tower and him for good. Now she was headed to Ostagar.


	7. Chapter 6

_**A/N:** Hi! Sorry for the delay. I've had a busy couple of weeks. And my internet died. xD  
I had fun writing this chapter. (Should I feel guilty for that?) Lulz. Originally it was going to be the last one, but I think I might add one more chapter. And, oh! I've started the sequel thing if anyone's interested. c: Feedback= love!  
Edit: I was told by a few people that they were surprised that this chapter took kind of a darker turn compared to its predecessors. I didn't really think about that, but I guess they're right. o_o So, yeah! Just a heads-up, I guess: this chapter (and the one after it) isn't exactly as casual as before. x3_

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**Birds of a Feather**  
Chapter 6

When Cullen had suspected that she may not be ready to speak to him for a while, he didn't realize exactly how long "a while" would really be.

He heard the news the following morning: Solana Amell had left the Tower for good; recruited into the ranks of the Grey Wardens by the man named Duncan.

She had been whisked away right after she had passed her Harrowing. And right after he had told her that he would have been willing to chop off her head, should he be ordered to.

_Of course, _ Cullen thought bitterly, glaring at the wall opposite the Library doors.

At first he hadn't believed it. That she, just barely a mage, had already been located and marked and drafted by the Grey Wardens? That she, a mage who had lived in the Tower her entire life, was simply going to get up and leave, just like that? That she, that girl—that _mage— _who would actually stop when she saw him to offer her greetings to him, a _Templar_? That she would, after seeming to be so kind, just get up and leave him (not to mention the Tower!) without even a goodbye?

No, he hadn't believed it. He didn't _want_ to believe it.

He was willing to believe the stories about that other mage, Jowan, who had somehow broken into the Phylactery Vault (with only the help of a single, stray Chantry initiate) and used Blood Magic to escape. He was willing to believe _that._

But he wasn't willing to believe this.

And he thought—hoped— that maybe, a few people had seen them talking and heard the rumors about their friendship (because they _were_ just friends—really!) and told him of her departure just to mess with him or get a reaction.

Except that it had been two weeks since her Harrowing, and Cullen hadn't seen head or tail of her; though he _had _seen her talkative friend (and maybe it was just him, but she had seemed a little quieter now, more subdued). And, finally, he was forced to accept that the rumors _weren't_ rumors and that Solana Amell, newly-risen mage—and the only one of them who didn't seem to think he would be better off as toad— had left the Tower, leaving in her wake a trail of chatter and excitement, a Chantry short one initiate, a Tower missing two mages, and a very, very down-hearted Templar who just couldn't seem to escape the whispers of her name and departure.

But, after the initial gossip and spreading-of-news had ended, things settled down again. Her name soon followed in its keeper's footsteps and vanished from halls, the mages and Templars resumed their business as usual, occupied now by a different development within the world of the Circle of Magi, and despite her absence from the Tower it had not crumbled, and the world had not stopped spinning.

And in the few months that followed her departure there had been another retirement and another new recruit and a few more passed (and failed) Harrowings— including the girl Elsie's, who had now taken up residence on the second floor.

And Cullen was beginning to think of things as normal once again, and had almost managed to forget about that smiling mage-girl whom he had bumped into his first night in the Tower. At least until everything just got flipped upside-down.

And then, by no stretch of the imagination, could _anything_ be called "normal."

_- o -_

No one knew why, or even _how _it had happened, but it had. And suddenly the Tower was in chaos and people were panicking and walls were crumbling and there was screaming that sounded from every single room, every single _stone_, and it never seemed to get any quieter despite the fact that, one-by-one, there were less and less people around who were even _capable_ of screaming.

Or breathing.

And the mages and Templars and Tranquils alike fell like dominos at the hands of demons and abominations and Maleficar who all just seemed to _materialize _within the Tower walls.

And Cullen and his squad were right in the middle of it.

And they _continued_ to be in the middle of it for Maker-knew-how-long; picked off one-by-one until only Cullen— trapped in the once-crowded circle-prison that had been erected around him and his team— was left.

And though he was tired and delirious and frightened and no longer sure reality or his sanity, Cullen was determined to stay strong. For his sake—and the sake of his fallen friends.

And he learned quickly, their tricks. He learned the images that they would plant in his mind to taunt and tease and try to break him.

But he also learned how to ignore them. How to fight.

And though at times— when they showed him her face, her _body_— he was tempted to stop resisting and let go and finally give in to their cruel enchantments, he didn't.

Because he was a Templar and they were mages and he had to stay _focused_.

So that's what he did. And even though it grew more and more difficult with each passing hour (_or maybe it was days_—Cullen didn't know) as the buzzing and itching in his head grew more and more persistent and his body grew weaker and weaker and his Lyrium-craving grew stronger and stronger, the smell of death and tainted magic still danced in the air; and it reminded the Templar of his vows and duties and ties to his world as it kept him just barely grounded with a purpose.

And then she appeared, once again, in front of him; standing on the other side of his accursed, magic-made prison, she held her hand up and pressed it against the translucent barrier. And she spoke words of comfort and reassurance to him and wore a look of pained concern so convincing that, had he not already been exposed to so many the maleficars' cruel jokes, he just_ might_ have fallen for it.

But he didn't— he was ready. He had learned their games and how to play.

And how to _win_.

Because it was a test of mental stamina. And determination. And he was _determined_ not to lose.

And so, when her teasing ghost was again positioned before him, Cullen shut his eyes and knelt in prayer and spoke the lines that he had been forced to rehearse for his captors so many times before.

And the words came tumbling from his mouth, eager to escape where he could not; and giving him the power to dispel the maleficars' newest creation.

Except they didn't work. And when he opened his eyes, she was still there, still watching him; her worry evident even through her exhaustion.

"I'm no joke," she whispered, kneeling so that she might look him in the eye. "I'm here to help you."

_.x.X.x._

She was sweating. But she was also shivering.

And the goose-bumps that had appeared when she had entered the Tower and the knot in her stomach that had formed after the first few minutes inside and the crack in her voice that sounded when she spoke had stayed with her all the way up to the Senior Mage Quarters.

Because it frightened her, seeing the Tower like this.

The Tower— which she had lived in and called home for so long and come to think of as being one of the strongest, most solid, most impenetrable forces in the world (from both the outside _and _in)—was in ruins.

And there were corpses. And screaming. And strange _growths_ that stuck up from the stone that radiated feelings of alien-ness and danger.

And there were demons and abominations and Blood Mages, and Templars who had long since lost themselves to the chaos and the magic and the fear.

And they were everywhere.

In the Tower.

And she was _scared_.

And even as they battled, and the last of the group of Blood Mages in front of them fell, pierced by an arrow that Leliana had sent whistling over her head, she allowed her shell-shocked thoughts to wander.

And wander they did.

Back to a time that now seemed like so long ago— back to the day that she had been summoned Irving into his office and asked to escort the stranger named Duncan to the guest quarters. Back to the day that she had helped a Blood Mage, and a life-long friend, to escape the Templars. And back to the day that she that she had learned she was to leave the Tower, in all its restraints and all its structure and all its _safety, _to begin travel and life as a Grey Warden

And she wondered, now, about what would have happened if that day _hadn't_ come; if she _hadn't_ left the Tower.

And then she was really, _really_ scared.

_But,_ she reminded herself, _That day __**had **__come. And she __**had **__left the Tower._

And now, _because _of that day, she had her new friends at her side and responsibilities to fulfill and demons to kill and a certain, overly-corrupt mage to deal with.

So, she continued to climb.

And, just when she was beginning to think that there was nothing else the horror-infested Tower could throw at her that would unnerve her anymore, she saw _him._

Cullen.

And he was standing inside of a strange, circular barrier that she thought for a moment might've been raised for protection—until she saw the bodies of dead Templars piled within it.  
And she gave a little squeak-gasp and ran forward, ignoring Alistair's cry of "Hey, wait!" and Leliana's shout of "Careful, it could be a trap!", too fast for either of them to grab her and pull her back.

She came to a breathless halt in front of him and stared.

His expression was hard and his eyes were steel and she could tell that this man was _not_ the same Cullen that she knew.

_But he was still Cullen._

And she opened her mouth to speak, but her voice caught in her throat and no sound came out; and Cullen who was talking, instead.

"This trick again?" He growled, looking at her. "I know what you are... It won't work. I will… stay_ strong_."

As she looked at him he went to his knees, bowing like they did in the Chantry, as he began to mutter under his breath.

And by then, Alistair and the others had caught up to her, their hurried steps coming to a stop behind her as they looked at the scene before them. And she heard Leliana gasp and Alistair groan and Wynne make a kind of pitying, horrified, _tsk_ing noise; but she didn't turn around—she was still frozen.

"Cullen…" she managed finally. And the ice in her veins shattered as her voice broke through; trembling even more than her body as it fought to contain the sobs and screams and greetings and good-byes that she knew this was _not the time for. _And her legs gave out from under her and her staff fell from her grasp and she pressed her palm pressed against the wall; perhaps in a hope that this action might somehow allow her to fall through, or be able to reach in and pull the man from his imprisonment and bring him back to the other side. "Cullen, don't you recognize me?"

"Only too well," he grimaced, shutting his eyes as he began to rock back and forth, still muttering.

And, from behind her, she registered that Wynne had said something; though, as all of her attention was already captivated by the shaking Templar in front of her, she was unsure what that was.

"Enough visions!" he gasped, not looking up. "If anything in you is human… kill me now and stop this game!" His words were desperate, becoming more and more rushed and less discernible with each frenzied syllable that passed his lips.

And, were it not for the fact that she was so close to him when he spoke, she would have surely been unable to understand him at all.

But Cullen was far past caring whether or not she understood, or even _heard_ him. "Sifting through my thoughts," he mumbled, "Tempting me with the one thing I always wanted but could never have… Using my shame against me—my ill-advised _infatuation_ with her… A mage, of _all things._"

And even through her worry and her panic and her fear she felt herself turn pink; and heard something that sounded suspiciously like the clink of Alistair's armor a few feet away.

_- o -_

On their way back down her eyes wandered to the spot where Cullen's prison had stood; and though both it and he were gone she could see the bodies of his fallen comrades lain about, their corpses creating the outline of a perfect circle.

And she felt cold and guilty and more than a little sick as she wondered just _how long_ he had been trapped there.

But then she felt Alistair's hand on her shoulder as he gave it a squeeze. And she looked up and he looked back and he nodded in a comforting, reassuring sort of way that made her feel a little bit better. Then she took her place behind Wynne and across from Alistair and next to Irving to help support the Enchanter as they made their decent through the rest of the Tower.

And just before she left she thought she saw Cullen out of the corner of her eye; but she didn't have time to check as Alistair ushered her towards the Tower doors and out and out on to the darkened precipice and back to the creaky little boat that was waiting below.

_.X.x.X._

The prison had vanished. So had the screaming.

Things were quiet again. Too quiet.

She and her companions had slain the demons and abominations and Blood Mages and corrupted Templars.

They had confronted Uldred— and they had won.

They had saved the First Enchanter. They had saved the Circle.

And then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone; taking Wynne and a red-headed girl who spoke in a heavy Orlesian accent and a man in Templar Armor whom Cullen did not recognize, with her.

And he was left there, with Greagoir and Irving and the few survivors of the onslaught, in a cold and bloodied tower, faced now with the task of rebuilding their home.


	8. Chapter 7

**Birds of a Feather**  
Chapter 7

He thought it might just be easier to lie down and let gravity take care of the rest— who knew going _down_ the stairs could be so difficult? His vision was fuzzy and spotted and excruciatingly bright all at the same time. It was as if he had just stepped out from a very dark cave into the sun—over and over and over again. And it was _not_ helping his headache.

The stairs were deserted, as were the hallways. And except for the corpses and bloodstains (_Why couldn't his vision be __**more**__ blurry?_), Cullen was alone; everyone else seemed to have drifted downwards, emerging and congregating after the storm.

_- o -  
_

It wasn't right— it was downright _dangerous_. They shouldn't have let the mages live—not after this. They should have killed them all, right then and there. They should have just drawn their swords and finished what the abominations had already started. _They should have eradicated the magi.  
_And Cullen had _tried_ to tell him this; he really had. But Greagoir hadn't listened; instead, he had sided with the First Enchanter, the _mage, _and had refused to carry out the Right of Annulment.  
He was too trusting, the Knight-Commander— _"I believe Irving's word that Uldred is dead and the Tower is safe."  
_Didn't he realize that Irving himself could be a threat now? That he could be a puppet of a Blood Mage? That he could have a demon lying dormant in wait inside of him? Didn't he realize that the only possible, logical, for-sure solution was to just _end_ it?

Of course he did. But he was willing to take that chance. Instead, he was willing to risk more lives—more _Templars_—solely on the word of three possibly-demon-possessed mages and their outsider-friends..

It was the first time Cullen ever remembered wanting to punch someone out of sheer _anger._

But Greagoir had been clear and Cullen had restrained himself and the argument had ended. And now, seconds later and still fuming, Cullen was being called over by their Quartermaster

And the man was being very, _very _persistent; insisting that Cullen "just drink this" as he repeatedly shoved what the Templar was just _vaguely _aware of being a bottle towards him.

Finally, Cullen took it. Just to shut the man up.

The effect was immediate; one swig of the blue liquid and Cullen's senses doubled, his mind cleared, and the scratching and shrieking in his head softened into a melodious kind of singing and faded away.

His anger dispersed, changed instead into a sinking despair.

The Lyrium had been a simultaneous dumping of both hot and cold water at the same time. And while the sensations of one 'bucket' still dripped from his fingers and warmed his toes and head, the other seemed to have settled itself right inside of Cullen's stomach (which— had it not been so empty— might have been emptied right then and there).

He grunted an automatic "Thanks" to the Quartermaster, thrusting the still-filled flask into the man's chest with a little more force than was necessary. Then he pushed himself roughly from the crate he had seated himself on, and made his way back out into the main area, ignoring the other man's attempts to persuade him to go lie down.

_- o -_

He still felt light-headed and woozy. He was clammy and shaky and, had he been looking in a mirror at that moment, he would have seen that his sickly-ness was _not _just on the inside; his eyes were red and his hands were shaking and his face shined with icy sweat. But his head was clear now and the buzzing had stopped and he needed to know what was going on.

He looked around the corner just as she was turning away from Irving. The words "Redcliffe" and "Arl" and "Fade" passed over his head, but he paid no attention to them—he had other things to worry about.

And as his eyes landed on her, Cullen's mouth tightened and went dry and a new rush of the rage he had felt towards Greagoir resurfaced; directed now towards the mage who had her back turned.

It was tunnel-vision, the way he studied her. Glared at her.

Because she was surrounded by the force of mana; and even though it was just lingering, left over in the aftermath of battles, it wreaked of magic and power and _danger_. But she didn't— not physically, at least. In fact, she looked downright _ghostly_. Her motions were slow and there were shadows under her eyes and she was much too pale; and though she tried to hide it, Cullen could tell that she was having trouble staying on her feet.

His first thought was to go steady her. Because she had helped him and freed him and saved the Tower; and shown him kindness and a smile and she had been his _friend._

His second thought was that he was being ridiculous; that he should use this moment to his advantage and just strike her down. Because she was a mage, and she was surrounded by whispers of magic. And she had _used_ that magic to destroycountless demons and abominations and _Templars;_ and she was _dangerous._

His third thought—well, his third thought was interrupted when another figure, one dressed in armor identical to Cullen's, entered his line of sight and reached out to grasp her shoulder.

Immediately, Cullen's feelings of worry turned to alarm. What was this man— this _Templar_— doing? Why was so close to a mage_?_ And he wasn't even _pretending _to guard himself! In fact, he was doing just the opposite. The man was looking at her with concern, with _worry—_as if _she_ were the one who was about to get turned into a pile of ashes.

It was in how the other man moved— Cullen could tell. He was _oblivious_. It was as if, to this man, she were nothing more than a harmless sparrow with a broken wing or ruffled feathers; instead of the overgrown, multi-taloned, magic-wielding bird of prey that he (now) knew all magic-wielders were.

Was it because she was a Grey Warden? Did he think she was _safe_ because of that? That he could _trust _her? Did he think that, just because she had left the Tower and joined the Order, she was no longer a danger? No longer a _mage_?

Was this Templar really _that naïve_?

Cullen gritted his teeth and made to move forward, to get that Templar out of harm's way. But something stopped him.

It wasn't a physical (or magical) force, like the one he had previously been contained in. No, this time, his path forward had been stopped not by what he felt, but what he _saw._

Because she had turned, and she was now facing towards him— and towards the Templar. And— instead of reducing the man to a burnt little Templar-crisp like Cullen had expected her to— she had placed her own hand on top of the man's, and she smiled.

And it was a tired, sad, half-smile, but it was a smile none-the-less. And it was directed towards the Templar in front of her.

And then, while Cullen was still trying to figure _that_ out, something else happened— and Cullen had to wonder, for a moment, whether or not he had _really _been freed from the mages' illusion.

She was leaning into him. In the middle of the Tower and the wreckage and the still-wet pools of blood, Solana, the _mage_, was leaning into this man—armor and all.

And, even though the man was facing the other way, Cullen knew how he wore the Templar armor and where, just from his height, the symbol on his chestplate would be. And she had her hand pressed right up against it.

Fury and dread and confusion and _loss_ sprung up inside him all at once. She should be allowed to _touch _that—their Maker-given icon that the Templars knew so well. He shouldn't be _letting _her touch that; he should know better. He should take her hand and shove her away right _now _before she defiled it any more. Because what happening right now? It went against every singleTemplar-principle that _existed_. And Cullen knew this.

So why, even through his indignity and his anger, did he feel a strange prick of _something_ or other up inside his chest? Why, suddenly, did he want to run over there and rip the two apart for an entirely _different_ reason? And why, suddenly, as Cullen felt his grip tighten around the hilt of his sword, did he think that the _mage _might not be the number-one threat to that man's safety?

But then the two separated. And he figured the man had said something, because she was nodding and motioning to two of the women to follow her as she collected herself and looked around.

And Cullen had half a mind to just run up to her there and… And do _something_.

_But what?_

He didn't know. The thought teetered on the edge of his brain for a moment, uncertain and only half-formed, before it tipped over the side and fell into oblivion.

So instead, he turned around and with a tired grunt, made his way back to the cluster of Templars that had begun to form around the Knight-Commander. And as he went, he looked over his shoulder just once; and he thought he saw her looking back, too. But then the man in Templar-armor (who, Cullen now realized, was the same man who had been with her when she had found him in the circle-prison) was standing at the door, looking worried and urgent as he motioned for her to hurry up, and Wynne and the archer-girl had come around and fallen in-step behind her, obscuring her from view, and she had turned again and started to walk, back through the Tower doors.

_X.x.X_

The ride back was long and cold, and uncomfortable in more ways than one.

Four people had been hard enough to fit on the little boat, but five? Amell found herself peering over the edge more than a few times to check that the water level was still a good distance away from the top of the boat. But they all managed to squeeze in somehow; though she and Leliana were practically sitting on top of one another.

But it wasn't the cramped-ness the bothered her so—it was the silence (o rather, what _would _have been silence, had it not been for Carroll's incessant chattering). Because Alistair's mind was with Eamon and Connor and Teagan (who they had left back at Redcliffe), Wynne's mind was still back on the shore of the Tower with Irving and the others, and _her_ mind was split between the two; running back and forth between a dread-filled Alistair, and a still-shaking Cullen.

And as the oar creaked and a bit of frigid lake-water was splashed into the boat, Amell cast a quick, half-hearted glance around at her sullen party. Leliana was the only one who saw.

And the bard pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. And her eyes shone with that special Leliana-brand of concern that she had, as she gave her friend a small, encouraging smile, along with a quick hand-squeeze.

Amell returned the smile and the squeeze, suddenly very glad that she had accepted the woman's offer to join them in their travels.

* * *

**_A/N: _**_And so ends the story! Or at least this part of it. xD Yay! Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed and kept me going~. Hopefully I'll get the sequel up within the next week or so. :]_


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